Some twenty yards on, the corridor took a sharp turn to the right. Havilar peered around the corner. At the opposite end of the hall, a door led into a room which had seen almost as little use as the corridors. Brother Vartan sat in a chair that had been draped with some sort of heavy canvas. Rohini stood beside him, practically vibrating with energy.
Something was odd about the hospitaler, something Havilar couldn’t quite put her finger on. It was as if she were there … and yet she wasn’t. The nervous energy she exuded seemed almost as if it were shaking the edges of her. It made Havilar’s eyes ache.
“They are perfect,” she was saying.
“And … controlled?” Brother Vartan asked.
“Of course,” Rohini said merrily. “Perfect, as I said.”
“It’s just that I’m concerned. If something should happen-”
“
Havilar wrinkled her nose. Was there really nowhere better to tryst than the filthy, dusty room? Maybe Rohini was desperate to keep anyone from finding out. Havilar might not have thought Rohini was all that pretty, but she was sure Rohini could do better than a bore like Brother Vartan.
But Havilar’s eyes fell to the canvas-draped chair, to the place where Rohini gripped the fabric on the armrest. To Rohini’s nails, which had been neatly trimmed and clean, and which were now the color of blood and the length of iron spikes.
And as she watched and as Rohini pulled away from Vartan, her nails shrank back to being neatly trimmed, clean, and pink. Havilar sucked in a breath. Rohini cocked her ear and for a moment, Havilar was certain she’d heard. She gripped Devilslayer, ready to spring into a defensive stance.
But instead, Rohini smiled down at Vartan. “Perfect,” she said once more.
“Perfect,” he agreed.
She opened a door on the other side of the room and ushered in five orcs, armored like the ones Havilar had fought when the caravan had been raided, and painted in the blue, dancing magic of the Chasm. Wafting tentacles of blue fire surrounded one. Another wore gauntlets of the stuff, which wavered and bulged as if they were made of water. A female seemed to be covered in hard blue spikes, like a dire wolf. Havilar could not make out the other two-there was too much magic swirling in that room-but she could see the taint of the spellplague had marked them all.
And not a one was fighting Rohini as she led them out.
“Here we are,” the hospitaler said. “Five perfect specimens for you to bring to the Sovereignty. Just as you suggested.” She walked down the line of spellscarred orcs. “Your notes were surprisingly accurate. I only lost four.”
Vartan stood, looking over the orcs as if they were weapons fresh from the forge-greedy to make use of them, but well aware if he tried he’d regret it.
“They’re exactly what you imagined,” Rohini said. “Take them to the proxy now, and think about that. They’re perfect for what the Sovereignty needs. You were very clever to come up with them. Tell them you have more where they came from, and other gifts besides if their masters are willing to parlay.”
“They are,” Brother Vartan said, looking confused nevertheless. “I was.”
“Then hurry back and tell me what those disgusting aboleths say. We’re on a timeline now.”
Brother Vartan nodded thoughtfully. “How … do I bring them?”
Rohini smiled, and it sent shivers down Havilar’s back. “They’ll follow you,” she said. “They’re very pleased with the current state of events. Aren’t you, my pets?”
“We will fight for the Sovereignty,” the tentacled one said in his low, growling accent. He slapped his shield with the flat of his sword. “We will spill the blood of their enemies and those who flee will mark us all as a threat.”
“Yes, wait until they ask.”
Whatever the Sovereignty was, whatever an aboleth was, these things had nothing to do with the running of a hospital, Havilar was sure. Spellscarred orcs had nothing to do with a hospital.
And Rohini-
Rohini opened the door she’d led the orcs in from, and herded them and Brother Vartan back out. As she turned, she looked out into the hall, directly at Havilar. She laid a finger to her lips in a gesture of silence.
As she did, the fingernail became again a weapon and Rohini’s eyes flared red and fearsome.
Havilar took a step backward, afraid to look away from Rohini and find her suddenly near and testing Havilar’s glaive’s new moniker. Rohini didn’t look away either, and it wasn’t until Havilar had backed into the shadows of the hallway that she turned and ran.
She had to find Farideh. Farideh would know what to do with a devil who changed shape. Havilar raced back to the room she’d left her sister in on the other side of the temple.
Farideh was not there. She wasn’t in any of the rooms they’d been set to clean. She wasn’t in the wardroom where the acolytes lingered. She wasn’t in the little bedroom they shared with several ancient wardrobes.
Worse, her rod and sword lay on the bed. Her cloak was missing.
“Oh gods,” Havilar whispered. She leaned her glaive against the wall and picked up the rod. It was weighted like a mace, toward the tip, but not as heavy. A terrible, taut feeling seized her stomach. Surely Farideh wouldn’t have gone out without a weapon-but where was she if she hadn’t left? What if Rohini.…
She clutched the rod to her chest. “Oh Fari.”
The surrounding rooms had more old furniture or books or were locked tight. She pushed open the second to last in the hallway, dread pooling in her heart. The room was dark-the broken windows had been boarded over and only cracks of light shone through. Someone moved within. Someone big.
“Mehen?” She moved toward the shadow. The person was rocking on his heels, ever so slightly. She held the rod tighter, and hoped Farideh didn’t mind if she had to brain someone with it.
The shadow shuffled into the light from the corridor and Havilar made out russet scales and familiar armor. She cried out in relief and threw her arms around Mehen’s neck.
“Gods, I thought I’d never find anyone!” Mehen didn’t answer, so she kept talking. “We have a problem-a big problem. Rohini is a devil, and you’re the only one I can find! We have to get out of here, but I don’t know where Fari or Brin or anyone is. I’m afraid Rohini has them.”
Mehen said nothing. Didn’t even chastise her for being overexcited. He stood, rocking on his heels.
“Mehen?” Havilar asked. “Mehen, are you all right?”
“He’s fine.”
Havilar felt a hand-small but strong-close on her shoulder.
“Pity,” Rohini said, “Lorcan’s not here to help you this time.”
And something alien seeped into Havilar’s mind before she could point out Lorcan had never really helped her.
To kill the orc took until well after the sun had gone down, but the longer the sacrifice took, the more intense the power it created, and by the time he no longer screamed but made small hissing whimpers, Yvon was still wide awake and flush with the power of the sacrifice.
“The final stroke,” Sekata intoned. She pulled back her robe so the orc-had he eyes still-could see her angled, elf face. She pointed the ritual knife point down, and glanced around at her confederates.
“Take off your hood,” Yvon whispered to Creed.
“This is perfectly ridiculous,” Creed said, but he did as he was bade, revealing his own solid black eyes and pointed horns.
“It is part of the ritual,” Lector said.
“It’s a stupid part,” Creed said. “He can’t see us.”
“The entire ritual is critical,” Imarella whispered, her tail lashing in annoyance. “Or do you want our offering to the Supreme Lord to be for naught?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Creed said. “I-”
“Shut it!” Lector said. “You’re lucky we even asked you back.”
Sekata cleared her throat. “The final stroke!” She plunged the blade down into the erratically beating heart of
